


Exactly What It Looks Like

by Romiress



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: But a lot of talk about sex, Embarrassment, Humor, M/M, No Sex, complicated relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24512671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: Clark wants to say that it's not what it looks like, but that would be a lie.Heavily inspired by theCompatible Differencesseries!
Relationships: Clark Kent/Slade Wilson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 100
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Exactly What It Looks Like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OkayAristotle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/gifts).



Normally, Bruce just calls.

That's how things work. That's the understanding he and Clark has. If Bruce wants to talk, he calls, and Clark flies over the bay to Gotham and they end up chatting on a dark rooftop. That's Bruce's _thing,_ and Clark is far more willing to play along then Bruce is. Sunlight and Metropolis don't agree with him, and he doubts they ever will.

But things can't always be handled over the phone. Sometimes—when it's really serious—he stops by Clark's apartment to discuss things in person. Clark never actually approves of Bruce stopping by in costume, but Bruce Wayne going to a random Metropolis apartment would probably bring just as much attention, and it's easier for him to keep a low profile when going in through a window rather than a lobby.

And that's exactly what he's doing as he comes in the window to Clark's apartment. There's one window in particular that isn't connected to Clark's security system just in case someone needs to slip inside in costume. It doesn't set off any alarms. It doesn't draw any attention. Clark uses it himself any time he's still in the old red-and-blue.

Which makes it that much more confusing when Bruce closes the window behind him, turns the corner, and finds himself face to face with Slade Wilson.

It takes Bruce a solid second just to process what he's seeing. Slade Wilson, the man who's known the world over as _Deathstroke,_ is sprawled out on Clark's living room couch. He's not in any armor. There's not a sword in sight. He's reclined, relaxed, and sipping at one of the shitty beers Clark always keeps in his fridge. The TV's playing some sort of nature documentary about fish.

Slade's effectively mid-sip, his head half-turned as he regards Bruce with a level stare. He's not running. He's just... there. Staring at him.

And no matter how Bruce thinks about it, he can't for the life of him figure out what Slade's doing there.

* * *

It's his own damn fault, really. He's gotten complacent. He's just so used to Clark coming back through the window that when someone lets themselves in—Slade can hear the heartbeat over the TV, but doesn't pay it much attention—he just assumes it's him. He keeps assuming that it's him when he hears the sound of a cape (they make very distinct sounds), and the erroneous assumption persists right until something tall, dark, and unwelcome looms into his peripheral vision.

Slade turns his head to look at Batman mid-sip. He keeps his cool externally, but internally he's screaming. He's supposed to be one of the smartest men on Earth, but right then he's got nothing.

He needs an explanation. Blackmail? Ludicrous, even if it started that way. It doesn't make sense for him to be blackmailing _Superman_ by sitting in his apartment, drinking his beer, and all without a speck of weaponry to be seen. The truth is almost as absurd, and Slade is _absolutely_ not going to tell Batman that anyway.

Which leaves him with a whole lot of nothing. He has no story. He has no explanation. He can't even imagine what Batman must be thinking. The entire scene is almost nonsensical, and the fact that it takes a solid sixty seconds before either of them speaks is a testament to that.

"Wilson."

"Wayne."

He can't actually _see_ Wayne's expression, but he likes to imagine that his eye is twitching.

"What are you doing here."

Batman's famous iron control isn't quite as controlled as he'd like, because it doesn't sound at all like a question. It's more like a very confused statement. Like he can't figure out why Slade would be there any more than Slade can come up with a plausible explanation for his presence.

So he bullshits as best he can, cursing the fact that it's _Batman._ Any other member of the League he could bluff, but Batman? Too suspicious by half.

"We're roommates."

It's most definitely not going to pass the sniff test, but he tries anyway. It's the best he's got, after all.

"Roommates," Wayne says dryly. "You're roommates with Superman."

"We both have a pointed interest in maintaining our secrecy,"

Wayne's _uh huh_ is distinctly unconvinced.

"I don't know why you think this is so hard to believe," Slade says, following the sacred tenant of _fake it till you make it._ "Clark and I share the apartment. How do you think he pays for this place on a reporters salary, anyway?"

It almost, _almost_ works.

"And yet there's only one bedroom."

Crap.

* * *

Clark, to his intense misery, walks into the situation blind.

It's not intentional. It's just a simple fact that if Clark wants to get a good night sleep, he needs to not be able to hear that the couple four floors down are having an argument. The apartment isn't sound- _proofed,_ just sound- _padded,_ which is why Clark lets himself into the apartment through the front door, turns the corner, and finds Bruce and Slade in the midst of a staredown.

Crap.

If Clark had to pick two people in his life he didn't want to meet, it would be the two of them, and now they're in his apartment, glaring at each other.

Clark opens his mouth—probably to say _I can explain_ —and then promptly closes it again.

He really, really can't explain. He has no idea what to say. Even saying that he's grasping at straws is wrong, because he doesn't even have straws to grasp at.

"So," Bruce says harshly, "are you going to explain?"

"I'm not even sure how I would," Clark admits with a shrug. Really, he has no idea what he could say. He can't even come up with an explanation. The whole situation—Slade without a shred of armor on him—is _insanely_ compromising.

"I tried to tell him we were roommates," Slade explains with a shrug. "Only apparently he knows the layout of your apartment well enough to know there's only one bedroom, so that went out the window."

"Worth a shot," Clark says with a shrug.

Bruce, even through the cowl, squints. He squints at Clark, and then he turns his head and squints at Slade in turn.

"...Are you two _dating?"_

Slade actually chokes on his beer.

Clark stands there like a deer in the headlights. He has no idea how to respond to that, so he lets Slade answer for him.

"We're _fucking,_ we're not _dating,"_ he snaps, which only serves to horrify Bruce more.

"This is... We have rules," Clark says desperately. "This doesn't interfere with work."

"It's already interfered, otherwise you wouldn't be calling what you do _work."_

"You know what I mean, Batman."

"I know he's Bruce Wayne," Slade says casually from the couch, no doubt making things that much worse.

"Could you _please_ be quiet?" Clark hisses at him. "Just let me talk."

It feels like a genuine mercy that Slade goes quiet and lets him speak to Bruce without interruption.

"I know this looks compromising. With who he is, and who I am... but it isn't like that. It's—"

Clark pauses for just a moment, and then realizes he's already doomed.

"—Stress relief."

"I don't believe you."

Of all the things Bruce could have said, _that's_ the one that throws him for a loop the hardest.

"You... you _don't believe me?"_ Clark asks, mildly horrified.

"Clark just confessed we're fucking, and— how the hell could you not believe him?" Slade barks. He's actually sitting upright, which isn't a good sign. Clark prefers him slouched. Less tightly wound.

Clark's more focused on trying to figure out what Bruce must be thinking, but he has no idea. What could be worse then the truth? What could Bruce _possibly_ think is going on?

"Fuck it," Slade says. He's ballet-dancer graceful as he hops over the back of Clark's couch, advancing on him without a care in the world. Internally, Clark's screaming, but he can't deny that the sight of Slade advancing on him sends blood rushing south. He backs up unconsciously, back bumping against the wall, and Slade doesn't even hesitate to plant his hand just beside Clark's head, leaning in for a kiss.

It is _not_ a chaste kiss. It's the kind of kiss that makes anyone watching it blush. It's the kind of action that makes the elderly look away, and the young stop and stare. It's hot an intense and very, _very_ distracting. Clark's doing his best to keep an eye on Bruce, but when Slade bites at his lip he loses his focus. His hand comes up instinctively, resting on Slade's hip, and he leans into the kiss, hungry for more.

And then, to his intense frustration, Slade pulls back.

"He's gone."

What? Clark's head whips around, looking for Bruce, but he's gone. There's no sign of his fellow Justice League member, but the window _is_ slightly open, as if Bruce was leaving so quickly he couldn't be bothered to close it.

"I need to go after him," Clark says, attempting to sidestep away from Slade. Slade follows, not letting him escape.

"You're staying right here. I've got a tent pitched, and you—"

"I need to talk to him before he talks to anyone else, Slade." Clark reaches out, physically picking Slade up and setting him aside. "This is important."

"So's my dick, Clark."

Clark rolls his eyes, but as he heads for the window, Slade doesn't actually try and stop him. Even if he's flustered—and Clark is flustered too—he knows that Clark _does_ need to talk to Bruce.

But as much of a hurry as Clark's in, he knows he's going to have to take a moment anyway: the cup in his suit isn't _nearly_ enough to hide how hard he is.

Really, Slade's going to be the death of him.


End file.
